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Alpha Male Black Thugs

This is the first chapter from a sexy new story called Alpha Male Black Thugs, which is about a black ATF agent undercover and downlow at a moving company that’s also a front for a local arms trafficker. You won’t believe how hot and hard this story gets!

Walter didn’t need to pretend to be bedraggled. He had been living rough for three weeks to be sure he looked the part. Now he had finally gotten through the first — and, he suspected, most difficult — part of his mission. Once he was accepted by the Nine Tats, he’d be able to collect the evidence he needed and then get out.

A part of Walter was frightened, of course. A lot of things could still go wrong, but he had been working undercover for the ATF for years. This wasn’t the first time he got himself insinuated into the fabric of a street gang, knowing that even the tiniest slip-up would lead to his downfall.

“So this is it, nigga,” said Fajah. Fajah was not the person Walter was trying to catch. That was a man named Reginald Clark, but Walter wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t met Clark yet. If Clark were that easy to catch, he would have been caught already. He was smart, that was for sure. Fajah frowned at Walter. “Ain’t much, I know. Just a safehouse.”

It was just an ordinary-looking house in Atlanta. It was in the ghetto, but one of the nicer parts of a ghetto, so it wasn’t really a terrible neighborhood. The house itself was ramshackle and well-worn, with stained floors, chipped paint and the smell of bachelor living. It was obvious some people lived here, which wasn’t what Walter expected.

“Who lives here?” he asked. The last time he had gotten an invite to a gang’s safehouse, it was just a tiny efficiency apartment; he slept on the floor until he got the evidence he was looking for. That’s what a “safehouse” usually was. In contrast, this was an entire home with several people already living here.

“Uh, a couple niggas,” Fajah said. “Me too.” He led Walter to one of the bedrooms. “This is my room. Yours too, now. You got the air mattress there on the floor.”

Walter sniffled. He tried not to sound upset. As far as Fajah was concerned, Walter had run away from a prison camp in Arizona. It wouldn’t do to seem prissy. But in actuality, Walter was too old to be sleeping on an air mattress; his back was going to hurt. He sighed and sat down. He didn’t have any things — since he was pretending to be a fugitive — so as soon as he sat down, he was “moved in”.

“You gonna start work tomorrow,” Fajah said. He turned around and stripped off his shirt, revealing a powerful brown chest. He wore a stained white wifebeater. He carefully folded up the t-shirt he had been wearing, and placed it on a stack of clothes, next to a hernia belt.

“Oh. Work? Whatchoo need?” Walter said. He was excited. He hadn’t thought they’d give him anything to do right away, but if they did, he might be able to catch Clark immediately. Walter ran his tongue  under his lip and gave Fajah a knowing nod to suggest that Walter could be trusted with anything. “I can do whatever, nigga. I keep my mouth shut.”

“Nothin’ like that,” Fajah said. He opened his mouth to explain further, but then the door opened downstairs. The sound of men trampling into the house filled the room. Fajah motioned for Walter to come with him. “I’ll introduce you to the other guys.”

Walter sighed. He knew pushing the issue would make him look suspicious. They almost certainly wouldn’t give him a serious job to do on his first day; they didn’t yet have any good reason to trust him. He would have to spend some time insinuating himself in the fabric of the Nine Tats, so they’d feel comfortable enough to ask him to do something illegal.

As Walter followed Fajah downstairs, the sound of one man in particular filled the air. Nah, nigga, you shut the fuck up. I said to take the trash out last night, now you got a goddamn pile of rotting garbage right over there, you fuckin’ numbskull. If you forget next week, I’m gonna make you sleep out in the garage right next to the trashcan, so you’ll remember.

That had to be Reginald Clark. Walter had never heard the man’s voice, but that was clearly the sound of the man in charge. When Walter got downstairs, he saw a dozen or so black men, wearing sleeveless t-shirts and sagging jeans, carrying with them hernia belts and empty water bottles. Walter felt intimidated — he was small compared to any one of these men, all of whom glanced at him but didn’t say anything.

“Yo, Reggie, here’s that nigga,” Fajah said.

Clark was the only person here not dressed as a mover — Walter saw a moving truck outside, and gathered now that this “safehouse” also housed the workers at a moving company that he assumed Clark must own. Clark wore a plain white button-down t-shirt and black slacks; the clothes were nice, but smudged with dirt. His thick body swayed as he strode to Walter to shake his hand.

“What was that, Fajah?”

Fajah blushed and bit his lip. He sighed. “Mr. Clark, this is Walter Harson. He’s your newest employee I was telling you about.”

Mr. Clark nodded. He eyed Walter suspiciously. “Walter. You need this job, huh? Fajah said you was desperate.”

Walter nodded. “Yessuh,” he said. “I been on the run-“

“Yo!” Mr. Clark barked. Everyone fell silent. “What was that? I know I ain’t hear some nigga say he a fugitive in my house.”

Fajah cleared his throat. “He means he go joggin’, Mr. Clark. He ‘on the run’,” Fajah said.

Mr. Clark nodded. “That makes sense. Jogging is good. It’s healthy,” he said. He grabbed Walter’s biceps through his clothes. He frowned as his hands roamed up and down Walter’s arms and chest. “He ain’t big. You ain’t tell me he was little, Fajah.”

“I’m not that little,” Walter said. He had never been a small man, but he was obviously not built like a mover either.

“He may be little, but he loyal,” Fajah said.

“You prove that?” Mr. Clark asked.

A silence filled the room. Fajah murmured a no, and some of the other men exchanged knowing glances. Someone giggled then stifled a laugh.

Fajah coughed. “Not yet, nigga… Mr. Clark, I mean.”

Mr. Clark crossed his arms over his chest. He frowned and raised his eyebrows.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to prove my loyalty,” Walter said. He tried to thread that line between willing and forced — he did want to do this; he wanted to get assigned a crime, but he wanted to look like he didn’t really want to, that he’d be willing to do it only out of a sense of devotion to the cause. “I can hustle. I do what I gotta do, Mr. Clark. You want me out on the street, I be out there, and I come correct. I got-“

“Nah,” Mr. Clark said. “That ain’t how you gonna prove yo’ loyalty.” He didn’t take his eyes off Fajah, who lightly grabbed Walter’s arm and motioned towards the stairs. Walter followed him upstairs, heart pounding as he heard one of the other men make porno-like music. (Baddow-chicka-bow-wow) They all laughed. Mr. Clark cleared his throat. “I don’t allow hustlers in this house, nigga. If you live here, you gotta work for me. I don’t hire thugs. I hire difficult men, and I gives ‘em a job, a place to live, health insurance. That’s what I do, nigga. If you bring crime into this house, I will punish you. My punishment will end with calling the police, so you gonna end up behind bars, but you’ll experience somethin’ even worse first.” Someone oohed and aahed until someone else shut them up. Mr. Clark didn’t break eye contact with Walter, who shrugged nonchalantly, stopping on the stairs to hear what he said..

“Fine, nig… Mr. Clark,” Walter said. “I’s tryin’-a put my life back together. You want me to be a law-abidin’ kinda nigga, that’s the kinda nigga I gonna be.”

“Good,” Mr. Clark said, “Mah nigga.”

Walter followed Fajah back up to the bedroom. He got the impression from Fajah’s reluctant slowness that whatever he was going to be assigned, Fajah didn’t want to do it. Since Mr. Clark hadn’t acknowledged any knowledge of a crime, not even Walter’s status as a fugitive, he hadn’t done anything illegal yet. Walter would just have to go along with it for now, until he could get Mr. Clark to do something incriminating. That wasn’t too surprising — it took him almost a year to get the boss to incriminate himself on his last operation.

When he shut the door to the bedroom, Fajah bit his lip. “So… you ain’t gotta do this. I’ll tell Reggie you did it anyway.” His strapping chest muscles were tight, flexed, awkwardly nervous. His body heat emanated through his thin wifebeater, and Walter could feel his warmth in the tiny bedroom.

He swallowed nervously. “What is it, nigga? I’m tough. You want me to rob someone or somethin’? Huh? I been a hustler fo’ long enough-“

“No, no, nothing like that. Nothing illegal, not yet. You been locked up, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You fuck around wit’ a bitch?”

Walter shrugged. “Yeah. I gots a blowjob or two. Ain’t really that kind of nigga though.” He had spent hours coming up with a backstory, and had a detailed story ready for every time he had sex in prison. But he knew a fugitive thug like him wouldn’t be forthcoming with the details, so he kept things vague for now.

Fajah nodded. “Me neither. You ever get punked?” He paused. “No judgment, nigga. I know it happens to the best of us.“

Walter shook his head. “No way, nigga.”

“Well, that’s what Reggie wants you to do. But we ain’t gotta do it, we just gotta pretend we did. You have to tell Reggie you did it though,” Fajah said. “He wants you to suck my dick to prove you loyal, prove you really need this job. This house is only open to niggas who really need it.”

Walter’s heart nearly jumped up in his throat. He had been so focused on agreeing to do whatever it took that he already nodded his head before it really sank in. Could he truly go through with this?

“You do it?” Fajah asked with a wry smile, as though he had been expecting Walter to say no. “I mean… if you want to…”

“I do what I gotta do to prove I’m loyal. No undercover would suck some nigga off, right?” Walter said with a smile. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. He tried to come up with a reason not to go through with it, but after having already said yes, claiming he had done it behind bars and outright offering to do something illegal instead, he could hardly claim this was beyond the pale. He was a fugitive on the run, as far as Fajah was concerned, he had to keep that up.

So he sunk to his knees. He heard scandalized laughter downstairs, and he had a feeling someone was calling out to him, teasing him, making jokes about what they all knew was happening. Someone — possibly Mr. Clark himself — shushed the others.

“Ignore them, nigga,” Fajah said. “They all done the same. They just ain’t wanna admit it.” He unzipped the fly of his sagging jeans, and pulled out his cell phone to watch some straight porn.

Once the tinny sound of moaning women filled the room, Walter felt nauseous. Fajah had a long cock, dangling out from the fly of his jeans. Walter took a deep breath, thinking that would help, only to get a nostrilful of stank cocksweat. He gagged, but forced himself to get started.

Salty flesh invaded his mouth. It was loose and limpid, clammy, yet warm, and when it jerked towards erection it felt like an alien creature stirring to life inside him.

There was a vein on the underside of the shaft. For some reason, Walter found it appealing, and he ran his tongue up and down it. That made Fajah shudder and his dick stiffened up even more.

“Yeah, you give some gud respec’, boy, Reggie gonna like hearing ‘bout this,” Fajah said, his tone turning rough and gangsta. His dick was rock-hard now, pulsating in Walter’s mouth. He reached into his jeans and let his low-hanging balls come out the fly as well. That reawakened the sweaty-balls scent that overwhelmed Walter’s senses. “Ugh, yeah, fuck yeah…”

Though Walter already knew Mr. Clark was behind this, the thought of Fajah describing the blowjob to him made Walter even more embarrassed — would he really describe it? Or just say that it had happened? He could picture Mr. Clark’s mustache shaking as he nodded his head in satisfaction.

Fajah began grinding his hips onto Walter’s face. He groaned as Walter’s throat clenched around his cockshaft, but Fajah inexorably shoved his meat deeper and deeper.

“Open up, nigga,” Fajah said a couple times, murmuring, sounding a little embarrassed about how good this felt. He threw his head back and groaned. “Lick that meat, yeah… Lick it up, nigga…”

When the first drops of powerfully acrid precum hit his tongue, Walter was surprised by how appealing the taste really was. The anticipation had been worse than the actuality of it. He could almost enjoy this, if it weren’t for the humiliation.

“Okay, nigga, here it comes,” Fajah said, “You do gotta swallow. That’s Reggie’s rule. He say it’s disrespec’ful if’n you don’t.”

Walter’s stomach churned at the thought. Even though the precum hadn’t turned out to be that bad, he wasn’t sure he could handle anything more than that. By that time, however, Fajah had wrapped his hands around the back of Walter’s head. He pistoned his hips back and forth, uncaring of how much Walter choked and spat up around his cockshaft.

The first drops of cum hit his tongue. The taste was sweet and sour, not exactly pleasant but Walter found it much less revolting than he would have guessed. The texture was snotty and thick, and it coated Walter’s throat.

“Oh fuck yeah, nigga, fuck!” Fajah said. He took a deep breath and chuckled. He held onto the back of Walter’s head until Walter’s whole body bucked, and Walter finally looked up at him. Despite the humiliation, they made eye contact as Fajah’s body roiled with the aftershocks of his orgasm. His cock throbbed in Walter’s mouth. Fajah slammed a fist on the wall, roared loudly and then chuckled as the men downstairs cheered. Walter blushed.

Then his dick fell limp. Fajah was in no hurry to pull out, letting his softening cock rest there even as Walter spasmed and spat around it. At last he pulled out, and Walter choked as that slimy cockshaft plopped out of his mouth.

“Good job, nigga,” Fajah said, smiling down at Walter’s gasping face, “I’ll tell Mr. Clark you proved yo’self good.”

Prison Guard Lust

Here’s a sample from the beginning of Prison Guard Lust, a new story from Brutewood Minimum Security! Yes, there’s a Brutewood Minimum Security!

 

Every Sunday morning, Winthrop worked early — he was the only guard there in the mornings on Sunday — and every single time, he said either things sure are quiet today or the cell block’s restless today, as though those were only two small-talk starters he was allowed. Gerald smiled each time as though he had never heard it before.

“Yeah, it’s been quiet all night,” Gerald said. Winthrop was about to walk away, and Gerald’s mind raced as he tried to think of a way to get Winthrop to stay. He didn’t want to sit in his cell with nothing to do all day. “Uh… how was Anna’s reading?”

Officer Winthrop stopped and sighed. His wife was a poetess, and she had had a reading of one of her poems at the community college last night. Winthrop had shared that with Gerald a few days before. To Gerald, that fact was like a lifeline — he hadn’t really connected with anyone since coming to prison, so gaining a friendly relationship with someone gave him a sense of vitality and purpose.

“I don’t know,” he said. He sounded disappointed.

“Oh? You didn’t go? Did you have to work? Boy, Warden Armstrong is a prick. I’ve got a theory about white men, you know-“

“He is a prick, but I can’t blame this one on him,” Winthrop said. “She dumped me.” He spoke directly into the little window into Gerald’s cell, and as he said that, his voice broke. He looked away.

“Oh. Wow, I’m sorry, my nigga,” he said. Gerald ordinarily never called anyone nigga, but he had gotten into the habit of it now that he was surrounded mainly by black people. He thought it came across as forced, but Officer Winthrop didn’t seem to think so. Gerald wanted Winthrop to know how much Gerald liked him, and saw him as a friend.

Winthrop shrugged. “Whatever. I never thought we would be serious.”

“She was your wife…”

“I know, I mean… When we first got together, I thought we didn’t have a chance. It wouldn’t work out. She was a white girl, a poet — a frickin’ published poet, who the hell actually makes a living as a poet? She was half my age. Less than that. She was only nineteen when I met her.”

Doing a little math in his head, Gerald whistled. “You’re in your forties? I had no idea. You look great-“

“But somehow it all worked out, or it seemed to,” he said. Winthrop hadn’t noticed Gerald’s compliment. He wasn’t really listening. “We got along just fine. We used to laugh so hard they’d ask us to leave the restaurant. And now I’m alone. We ain’t laughed together in a year, at least. I met her like a week after my girlfriend broke up with me We been together for like eight years at that point, so I ain’t really been single since I was like twenty-six years old.”

“Damn…”

“I’m just so fucking horny,” he said. “I mean, I’m lonely too, but I forgot what it was like to be single, to have to pound yo’self off at night. A man shouldn’t live like that.”

Gerald’s heart started pounding as he realized this was his opportunity. He wanted to get Officer Winthrop on his side — and he wanted to get laid — so what better circumstance could he wait for? It was still early enough on Sunday that not many people were up, and Winthrop could spend a little extra time in Gerald’s cell, if he wanted to. Gerald’s eyes fluttered and he pursed his lips.

“You’re right, y’know. A man shouldn’t live like that. You want some help with that? I can help.”

“What? You know a girl you can hook me up with? I dunno about that, I was thinking about staying away from women for awhile,” he said. “I’m old enough I ain’t gotta be chasing after pussy all the damn time. I might just-”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean. I’m gay, I don’t know many girls, and most of the ones I do know are lesbians,” he said. “But you don’t have to meet any girls to get your rocks off.”

“Wha-?” Officer Winthrop cut himself off when he looked Gerald in the eyes and realized what he was offering. “Oh. That’s against the rules, Gerry.”

Gerald hated being called Gerry, he always had. But Officer Winthrop had been calling him that since day one, and for some reason when Winthrop’s gruff voice said it, Gerald enjoyed it. It sounded sexy, instead of old-fashioned. Despite Winthrop’s words saying no, he didn’t walk away, and he didn’t sound like he was really refusing, so much as explaining why he couldn’t say yes so easily.

The Taming of a Dealer

Here’s a sample chapter from The Taming of a Dealer, a new story in The Taming of Man series!

When Scott didn’t call back the next day, Vanessa assumed it was just him being a standard male. They never called back the next day. Or the day after. The day after that, Vanessa knew she should be worried, but she told herself that it was different in college, that maybe white boys waited longer. They were always concerned about looking too desperate.

But after a week and a half, even Vanessa’s most optimistic side couldn’t pretend there was a chance he might call. It was obvious he wasn’t going to call her, and there had probably never been any chance. He probably just wanted to sleep with a black girl, she thought, like he had some sort of sexual scavenger hunt and he wanted to check off African princess.

She tried to tell herself that it wasn’t a big deal, but it was. Her first relationship at college had been a disaster. She had hoped Scott could be a real boyfriend, but it seemed he had only ever been looking for a one-night stand. She should have known better.

“Hey baby, wuzzup,” said a voice that sounded gruff, yet caring, with a syrupy sweetness contrasted by a smoker’s hoarse tone.

Vanessa was on her way back to the dorm from class, and walked through a trashy ghetto neighborhood that separated the campus from the freshman dorms. There were always homeless people and drug dealers there trying to find a way to get some money out of the college kids who streamed through in throngs. The man speaking was a lean and thickly muscled black man with short dreadlocks and a thuggish swagger to his lean. He nodded at her. “You in college, sweetheart?”

Vanessa nodded back at him. She stopped walking even though she told herself she shouldn’t. She should just pass him by, like the urban flotsam he almost certainly was. She hadn’t come to college to date drug dealers. She could have done that at home — at least there, it had the fringe benefit of pissing off her parents.

“Yeah, I’m a freshman.” She was nervous and bit her lip, which seemed to turn him on. He smiled at her and touched her arm. She wanted to walk away but couldn’t quite bring herself to do it.

They started talking like old friends, and Vanessa soon forgot her anxiety. When he invited himself up to her dorm, she didn’t even think about saying no. Her roommates would be at class and other activities until late in the evening. This time, she told herself, it was different because they were in her room; she could tell him to leave anytime. The RA was right nearby. This guy was smooth and charming and not as slick as Scott was, so Vanessa was hopeful that he’d be a nicer person.

The dorm security girls looked at her like are you sure? as she signed the man in. He was sexy, but was he a good idea? It seemed the security folks didn’t think so, judging from the way they shook their heads at her when she walked by.

His name was Rashad, and he was very hot. Vanessa couldn’t deny how horny he made her. She wanted desperately to fuck, and her anxiety around being used and left behind like Scott had done vanished. The entire elevator ride up to her floor was tense and silent, as she had to resist the urge to throw herself at him.

“Are you a drug dealer?” she asked once they got back in her dorm. He sat on her bed, and she sat next to him, vividly conscious of his body heat emanating towards her.

He laughed softly. “Not everyone in my neighborhood is a dealer,” he said. “Just most of them are.”

“I ain’t ask about everyone in your neighborhood,” Vanessa said. “I asked about you.”

“And I didn’t answer.” He kissed her on the lips. Their tongues had only touched for a few seconds before Rashad suddenly stripped off his shirt.

His chest was both sexier and less sexy than Scott’s, Vanessa thought: Rashad was a muscle-bound thug with a tattooed chest that made her want to lick every inch of his body. Scott was leaner, less obviously sexy, but she wanted to curl up in his chest and sleep with him forever. They both had their attractive qualities.

But for the moment, Vanessa was glad to be with Rashad.

Despite her misgivings, Vanessa didn’t even consider backing out. She dug her nails into Rashad’s body just as she had imagined, and it felt as good as she could have hoped. He responded by howling, which was sexy, Vanessa thought, unlike Scott who had apparently though he needed to remain stony-faced.

Rashad’s muscles writhed atop her as he dropped his pants and her skirt. She heard people outside her dorm room listening at the door, giggling, no doubt making jokes about her screwing some strange thug; she should have been embarrassed, but she wasn’t.

In no time, Rashad was spreading her legs so he could get inside her.  His cock was hot and heavy, and it was a lot like Scott’s, a bit thicker but not quite as long, which was fine with Vanessa — she preferred meaty thickness over length. Vanessa leaned back to allow him in, and moaned as her clitoris came alive under his touch.

His cock pushed deep within her. Vanessa felt deliciously dirt; she never thought she’d come to college and sleep with guys she had just met, but here she was doing it again. And with a guy she could just as easily have hooked up with back at home, in the ghetto.

Baby you are so hot, I don’t even know what to do with you.

Her hesitation vanished a little more with every thrust of his hips deep inside her. He had a big cock, not bigger than Scott, she thought, or maybe only a tiny bit, but he somehow managed to use more of it. He explored every corner of her body with his cock and his tongue, and Vanessa was so turned on by it she couldn’t even speak to tell him to keep going. Luckily he didn’t seem to need her to say it.

He groaned as he approached his orgasm. His voice was low and gruff, that cigarette-steeped hoarseness making her mind roll with uncontrollable lust and passion. She loved his growly voice and the exhilarating way he plunged into her.

Here I comes, baby, you ready for it? Course not, nobody ever is.

An orgasm wracked her mind and body. Vanessa moaned, uncaring of how much her dormmates heard — she was glad they heard; they’d be jealous once they saw Rashad. They wished they could get someone like him.

Hot cum filled her up, his creamy seed spilling out and running down her thigh. She bit her lip to avoid grunting in a most unladylike way, and used all of her limbs to grip his body tightly. She threw her head back and squealed.

He kissed her on the neck as their bodies both spasmed in sync with each other. Rashad’s strapping muscles flexed all at once, then fell limp. Vanessa felt drained, like she couldn’t stand up now even if she wanted to.

She sighed and leaned back on her bed as Rashad pulled away from her. He smiled and took a deep breath. He laid down on the bed next to her and nuzzled his face in her neck. “You’re so sexy, baby,” he said. “Can I sleep here tonight? I don’t want to leave you.”

What a nice change of pace from Scott, she thought, but in this case, I’m not sure I want him to stick around. She didn’t answer, she just cuddled up with his powerful body and let her actions speak for her. He nuzzled her body.

“My roommates will be back soon.”

“Good. I want the whole world to know what we did here.”

Hairback Appreciation Society: Convict Worship

Here’s a sample chapter from a new series, the Hairback Appreciation Society. This one is called Convict Worship, and it’s the incredible story of Rufus, a hairback lover who worships a convict alpha male fresh out of prison. It’s also part of the Brutewood Correctional Facility.

 

Rufus’ heart started pounding from the moment he saw men file past the prison gates. This is really happening, he realized, I am about to find the sexiest hairback around! He didn’t see the one he was looking for at first, but when he did, Rufus almost fainted.

He was Wendell “Thumper” White, a former pro-boxer who was finally leaving prison. He was not extremely tall, but he was thick and wide-bodied, not sculpted like he used to be yet still retaining all the power of his pro-athlete days. Rufus had arranged to pick him up and take care of him, but hadn’t given Thumper any information on who he was or why. Thumper, for his part, gave little indication that he cared. He seemed to just assume that Rufus was from some sort of halfway home.

Rufus waved to him and approached to shake his hand. Thumper just shrugged, shook and hopped in the passenger seat of Rufus’ car.

“Hello, Mr. White,” Rufus said. “I-“

“Thumper.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Call me Thumper. Not Mr. White,” he said.

“Oh, okay, sure. Thumper it is.”

“Whatchoo want from me?”

“Well… I’ve heard that you were in need of a place to stay. I-“

“What’s in it fo’ you? You a cop? I won’t snitch, man.”

“No, I’m not a cop. I just want to service you. I want to lick every inch of your body. I want to suck your dick and your ass and your balls-“ Rufus wasn’t usually this blunt, but he got the impression Thumper liked being direct.

“I ain’t queer,” Thumper said, in a way that suggested he was fine with Rufus’ plan, he just wanted to be sure Rufus knew it would be one-sided. In truth, Rufus only liked bottoming, he wouldn’t want to be with Thumper if Thumper was versatile.

“I know,” Rufus said. “I heard you were flexible behind bars, that you like fucking slim, hairless twinks. That’s me.”

“I don’t take dick.”

“Oh, I know. I wouldn’t want you to. I’m a bottom,” Rufus said. He didn’t live far away from the prison, so they were already pulling into his driveway. His heart nearly pounded out of his chest — there were so many ways an arrangement like this could go wrong, he thought, and so few it could go right.

“You like prison cock?”

Rufus nodded. “I love it.”

“You like black cock?”

“Love that too.”

Thumper smiled. “Alright, but if I’m gonna let some queer paw all over me, we doin’ things my way. Gimme money too.”

Rufus frowned. “Well, I don’t have any cash…”

“You can go get some later,” Thumper said. He got out of the car and walked with Rufus to the front door. Thumper leaned over and whispered in Rufus’ ear, “You gonna worship me?”

“Yes.”

Thumper sneered in disgust. He looked around for neighbors as Rufus unlocked the front door, then Thumper grabbed Rufus by the head. He pulled on his hair until Rufus’ whole body tensed up. Thumper sneered at him. “If you gonna be my bitch, you gonna act like a bitch, a female dog. A bitch decide what kinda man she like by sniffin’ his ass. So get on yer knees and smell my ass, bitch.”

Rufus blushed but did as he was told. Thumper wore lime-green basketball shorts which sagged low to reveal a bare asscrack covered in thick, kinky black hair. Rufus inserted his nose into the sweaty crack and inhaled deeply.

“Yeah, smell yo’ daddy real good, bitch.”

The smell was overpowering, musky and it made his eyes water. Rufus inhaled again as Thumper scoffed, then strutted inside. Rufus had to scamper behind him to keep his nose ensconced in Thumper’s hairy crack. Thumper grinned. “When you’s about to leave, they don’t let you stay in yo’ cell. They make you be in solitary for a couple days,” he said. “So I ain’t had a bitch in a bit.”

“You must be horny as hell, you poor baby… You want me to put on some straight porn?” Rufus asked.

“Hell yeah. Put on something wit’ a white bitch gettin’ double-teamed,” Thumper said. “I’ll take a shower.”

Rufus stood up, then blurted out, “No!” He hesitated as Thumper bristled at being given an order. “I mean… I want to lick the prison off you.”

“Oh, you one of them nasty kind of faggot?”

Rufus nodded. “The nastier the better.” He bent over his computer and hurried to a free porn site he knew of — he didn’t have any straight porn, so it took him a few minutes to find one.

Thumper started grabbing at his ass in a decidedly prison-rough way — he was crude and forceful, and he growled as though having trouble not raping Rufus right then and there. Stripping his shirt off, Thumper shoved one hand down the back of Rufus’ pants and jabbed a finger into his asshole.

“You my bitch?”

“Yes,” Rufus clicked play. He wasn’t sure this was a long enough video, but he was suddenly too horny to focus. It would have to do. It didn’t seem Thumper was paying much attention anyway.

“Who owns yo’ ass?”

“You do.”

“Say my name.”

“Thumper owns my ass,” Rufus said.

“That’s right,” Thumper said.

Rufus turned around and kissed his bare bicep. He tasted of dust and sweet and stainless steel, the flavor of prison, Rufus thought, distilled into one musky flavor that Rufus couldn’t get enough of. Thumper flexed his arm and chuckled at Rufus’ aroused reaction.

Diving into one armpit, Rufus inhaled deeply. The overpowering sweat hit his nostrils like an acrid train, and Rufus moaned with pleasure. He suckled each hair in Thumper’s armpit, marveling at how thick the hairs were, how kinky and curled, and how much of his own manhood had been trapped there over the years. It was strong enough to make Rufus’ eyes water.

He licked around to Thumper’s back, tasting each hair as he went. He licked the man’s back from shoulder to the top of his asscrack, going back up and down, kneeling to get as low as he could then standing on his toes to get up on top of his shoulder.

Thumper shuddered; he was a little ticklish, it seemed. He chuckled dryly. “You really is nasty. I made one of my bitches do this a couple years ago. Cried the whole fucking time.”

“He’s an idiot.”

Thumper nodded. “Yep, that he is. You don’t mind that my back’s hairy?”

“Mind? I love it. That was one of the things that drew me to you,” he said.

“All the young cats in my cell say I gotta get my bitch to shave my back,” he said. “They said you can’t leave prison with a hairy back. It’ll look bad to everyone outside the gang. You’ll never get a chick.”

“Not everyone gets it,” Rufus said. “Specially women.” He normally didn’t lick anyone’s back this long, but the more Thumper made a big deal out of it, the more he didn’t want to stop. He did move to the small of Thumper’s back and worked on slathering every inch of that with his spit.

“You know what to do,” Thumper murmured softly as he dropped his pants. He had hairy trunk-like thighs, and Rufus gave them each a quick lick. But it was obvious that Thumper wanted a rimjob. He bent over the couch and stuck his round, hairy ass in the air right in front of Rufus’ face.

He dove right in and licked the sweat out of Thumper’s asscrack. His tongue left a trail right through the center of his ass, while Rufus used both hands to separate the cheeks. Thumper’s dark asshole beckoned like a tasty treat.

He plunged in, and tasted a direct feed of Thumper’s essence. It was like chugging a beer made of musk, he thought, and the grimy, hairiness of Thumper’s ass made it even hotter.

Thumper growled and grunted and his muscular body writhed as though Rufus’ tongue was painful. He howled and bit his lip. He pounded his meaty fists on the ground to emphasize how good this felt, and he even lifted one foot off the ground. He shook his dangling foot as sexual tension roiled his middle-aged body.

His was dirty and grimy and hairy, exactly as Rufus liked it. As he lapped at the ebony hole, his hands delicately massaged Thumper’s hairy lower back, which writhed above Rufus’ head as Thumper responded to the rimjob. Rufus suspected he hadn’t had a rimjob from someone who wanted to give one in a long time, and he was surprised about how intense the pleasure was shooting up his intestines.

“Ah, fuck yeah nigga, you oughtta go to the prison and give some fucking lessons,” he said softly. His hips were undulating and pushing back now, as though his rectum was trying to fuck Rufus’ mouth. He used his ass and hips to pin Rufus against the wall, rubbing his hairy cheeks and hole on every inch of Rufus’ face.

Without a word of warning, Thumper turned around and slammed his dick down Rufus’ throat. He was just in time for the first wad of cum to land deep in Rufus’ gullet, making him gag just a little before guzzling the rest of the load down.

Thumper lightly smacked him on the cheek with one hand, using the other to caress his neck like an owner making sure his dog swallowed a pill. “Go on, swallow it, bitch. Swallow daddy’s seed.”

His semen was copious and creamy, but it had a certain wateriness that Rufus suspected was due to the prison diet. It was sour and snotty, and it stuck to Rufus’ tongue and mouth as he swallowed it down.

“Show me yo’ mouf, boi.”

Finally he was done and Rufus showed off his empty mouth. Thumper sneered and nodded. “Disgusting, faggot. Go clean my sweat off yo’ stupid queer face. Then go to the ATM and get me cash.”

Big Stack and the Bumcraw Bucks

This is a sample chapter from Big Stack and the Bumcraw Bucks, a story in the Gridiron Yards series from Eroticature.org. It is also available for less than a dollar per story as part of the megapack Year Round Training.

“Yo, I ain’t gay or nothin’, but if you want, we could fuck around together, y’know, on the downlow,” Khyree said. His face was flat and emotionless, thick lips pursed so I couldn’t read anything in his features. It was hard to look at him without my knees going weak anyway, because he was ungodly sexy.

My heart stopped. I gulped and looked into his handsome brown eyes. “What?”

“As long as you don’t tell no one,” he said.

“You… You would do that?”

“All the niggas up north do it,” he said. “It ain’t a big deal.”

It wasn’t unheard of for black guys here in Georgia to go downlow too, but no one I knew did it. Not that I hadn’t wished for a million guys just like Khyree to go on the downlow with me. There’s not many gay men in Bumcraw, and there’s only one other gay black man in the whole county, as far as I know. He’s a dick (not in a good way). So I was pretty starving for some cock to suck on that looked like mine, especially if it was attached to a football stud’s body like Khyree.

So Khyree’s offer filled me with desire, fear and indecision. Would he judge me? Was he kidding? Was he going to attack me if I said yes? But it seemed I didn’t need to say anything — he dropped the towel around his waist, revealing a long, thick cock, which he flopped between his fingers. He apparently assumed I agreed. It seemed a bit arrogant, but on the other hand, I didn’t know many gay men who would turn down someone like Khyree. He was muscled like a Greek god carved from mahogany, with thick arms and a massive swinging dick.

I stood and closed the door to the massage room. I knew the rest of the team had left already, Khyree only staying because of his strained ankle, but I was still worried about being caught. The Bucks were not keen on faggots, and they might have looked the other way for a player or a coach, who was important to their success, but a massage therapist? They wouldn’t have wanted me rubbing down their bodies every day if they knew it gave me a stiffie.

“I ain’t got all night,” he said. His voice was rough and gritty, and it made my dick stand straight up. “I gotta get out there and meet some ladies, y’know, get the world to know who I am. I got endorsement deals to score, nigga. So hop to it.”

His cock slipped easily right in my mouth, sliding down my throat. It tasted good and clean. The biting acridity of his soap and the remnants of powder he had worn during practice masked a faint underlying muskiness emanating from his balls.

We laid out on the massage room floor. Khyree undid the belt of my jeans and took hold of my cock. He swallowed it in one motion. He didn’t seem to have any hesitation either, and for the first time since he had been hired by the Bumcraw Bucks, I wondered if he wasn’t totally heterosexual. I wasn’t expecting him to reciprocate, but I guessed that was how things worked up north.

Khyree was a barrel-chested man, a lineman with all the power and almost none of the gut that most of them have. His powerful chest was hot and solid beneath me, his perfect belly quivering at my finger’s touch.

My dick felt like it was melting inside his mouth, his hot lips growling and his throat grumbling around my cock. I was on top of him, so the whole shaft just laid in his throat, and he moved his own neck back and forth. He didn’t seem to need any encouragement to get it all the way down to the root, and he rubbed it with his tongue like an expert.

Damn, I thought, maybe I should move up north. Sounds like a chill place.

His dick fit exquisitely in my own mouth, like it had been tailored for me. It was just fat enough to choke on, just long enough to squeeze in, but not so big that I sputtered or had to spit it out.

I used both my hands to finger his balls, and let one finger travel down to his taint. I had a hunch he was the kind of guy who loved a little attention paid to his taint, so I was glad to oblige.

He shot a thick load in my mouth, groaning around my cock in his own. His hands massaged my ass and slapped my cheeks. His nails dug into my flesh as the orgasm rocked his body.

I thought he might tell me to pull out, to avoid cumming in his mouth. But when I was done with his blowjob, he got even more enthusiastic with mine. He sucked it down to the root and slathered my cockshaft with his spit.

I held off as long as I could, fondling every inch of muscle on his body. My orgasm wracked my limbs, so intense it was almost painful. I shot a huge load in his mouth, and he choked but sucked it all down. He didn’t even hesitate or gag a little, so I wondered again how deep his heterosexuality ran.

He stood and said, “Alright, you better not tell no one, faggot.” Then pulled his jockstrap up and walked back out into the locker room.